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I walked to Buckingham Palace,
To drink tea with the Queen.
Then I went up Jack’s Beanstalk,
To collect a magic bean.

I joined the King and Sorcerer,
To slay a fiery beast.
Then used a fairy’s magic,
To join the Lost Boy’s feast.

I travelled back in time,
To see the apple fall.
Then I went forward again,
To make the first phone call.

I composed symphony No. 25,
At Mozart’s side.
I was in the wide open field,
When Van Gogh died.

I ran a 5K marathon,
And swam across the sea.
I travelled to the moon and back,
And witnessed Kennedy’s Decree.

Today I wrote a poem,
And it’s all lies, you say?
Not once did I claim it true,
So no lies did I portray.
– J. Carson

So I didn’t know it was National Poetry Day until I came on here at about 11:50 and saw a bunch of people posting about it. it’s now 12:01, but I figured I’d celebrate anyway with a poem I wrote a few years ago. I don’t remember exactly why I wrote this, but I remember something my English Lit. Professor said inspired it.

my heart had fell to the floor along with my
pants you ripped off of me last night. i could
not believe that i was lucky enough to be in
your sight. they say a good girl was worth
waiting for, and you laughed at the phrase.
you told me a girl is worth waiting for as long
as she stays.

i had been with you six long months and you
finally saw my skin. you were not only my
soul, but my sin. and i had given you a flower
that i would never get back, i planted it in
your heart. i didn’t know that just having sex
with you would tear me apart.

after you got what you wanted we went our
separate ways, and i went back and
remembered that phrase. i was not worth
waiting for, i was not a girl that was good
enough. so once again i made the edges of
my soul too rough. i would never let a man
touch me unless he loves me deep, so when
we went to bed all we’d do is sleep.

A person, for you, is a book.
Impossible to categorize,
it veers from non-sense verse
to the most tedious of novels
and back
in just a breath.
And the book ends, the book ends.
And what makes the person more real,
then,
than a book,
is just that you cannot re-read
one chapter, one sentence, one word.
You must re-write him,
her,
and you cannot.
This inability is the source
of everything you have to say.
– Joe Wenderoth

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Quote of the Week

“I became insane, with long intervals or horrible sanity.” – Edgar Allan Poe

Word of the Month

Resolution

Noun

Pronunciation: re-zol-oo-shun

Definition: A firm decision to do or not to do something.

Origin: 1350–1400; Middle English

Writing Prompt

If you’re reading this, you’ve been in a coma for almost 20 years now, we’re trying a new technique. We don’t know where this message will end up in your dream, but we hope we’re getting through. Please wake up! We miss you.

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